


alexa, play candyshop (bass boosted)

by bumbleberrysky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angel Soulmates, Angel Wings, F/M, Female Reader, Gabriel/Female Reader - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe - Freeform, Season 13 divergent, Soulmates, Wing Kink, Wingfic, future smut, human reader, i'll add more to this later bros, if i can get over the feeling like i'm committing a blasphemy, probably, sigh..... im really boutta do it huh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26912404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumbleberrysky/pseuds/bumbleberrysky
Summary: You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no ideawhatthat reason is. It's something you're destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point you'd thought wasdead. What does his return have to do with the changes you're suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason you'd been brought here in the first place? Maybe...Chuck works in mysterious ways after all.[divergent around s13/the end of s13-- will likely have spoilers]
Relationships: Gabriel (Supernatural)/Original Female Character(s), Gabriel (Supernatural)/Reader, Gabriel (Supernatural)/You, Gabriel/Reader, Gabriel/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	1. "stir-the-shit-out-of-dean" pants; an autumn wardrobe staple

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't watch 13 seasons for my favourite feathery asshole to come back and then die, AGAIN. season 13 brought something out in me that i didn't even know existed. I'm not sure whether this will have smut yet but maybe if I can get over the feeling i'm committing blasphemy by even thinking about it, i will throw it in here. it will definitely be multichapter. pls let me know what you think! fuck i feel like i'm committing a crime by writing this what a rush lesgeddit

“Honeys, I’m home!”

The bunker has the same light aroma of musty air and metal as you let yourself in through the heavy front door, feet carrying you, out of habit more than anything, to the steel landing that marks the entrance to the fortress. It’s been so long since you were last here that the two men you used to hunt with regularly have likely forgotten they gave you a spare key. Well, they hadn’t exactly _given_ it to you so much as you’d made a copy on the down-low and kept it for occasions such as this.

One hand keeps pressure on your arm, an attempt to stem the bleeding, and the other carries your single carry-on bag. You make it about halfway down the stairs before your gaze swings out over the foyer and you freeze, mid-step.

Sam and Dean, the two figures you _expected_ to find here, are standing stock-still with their guns half-poised (not directed at you) and expressions on their faces that are a combination of shocked, pissed, and extremely confused (mostly directed at you). Following the line of their weapons leads you to the other two occupants in the room, most definitely unexpected and completely unfamiliar.

One is in rags, cowering, and whimpering, unrecognisable underneath filthy tangled hair that covers his face, and the other is in a prim suit marred only by blood and a bit of dirt, barely a single strand of dark hair atop his head out of place.

“Twinkletoes? What the hell are you doing here?!”

It’s Dean’s stupid, old nickname for you that breaks you out of your shock, a glare already falling onto your face with the practised ease of muscle memory. 

“I’ll answer that when you tell me what the hell I just walked in on—” You come the rest of the way down the stairs, slower and more cautious now, with your gaze trained on the two at the other end of the table. It’s when the man in rags finally looks up from where he had been cowering and you catch a glimpse of his face, bloody and bruised but instantly familiar, that your words swell and catch in your throat.

“… Gabriel?”

The brothers in front of you heave a great, unanimous sigh, a look passed between them telling you that you’re about to be on the receiving end of a very ludicrous and typical Winchester story.

**x x x**

The first time you met Gabriel was not long after you’d gone through the biggest plot twist of your entire life. You’d gone to sleep in your bed, in your home, and woken up in a completely different part of the world, like some magician had snapped their fingers and you’d been the punchline of their very next trick. Much to your regret and distaste, some minor investigation revealed that where you’d woken up in the backseat of a car on the side of the road was in some state in the US. You’d sworn to yourself that you would never step foot here in your entire life and then, like God or whoever reigned above was laughing straight in your face, you’d just up and woken up in some random car in a place that made you long to be literally _anywhere_ else.

Preferably somewhere where the occupants didn’t have such easy access to guns.

… _like_ the two men who screamed and pointed theirs at you when you popped up from their backseat after they climbed into the cabin, fast food in their arms.

That was the first time you’d met the infamous hunting brothers, the _Winchesters_ , and the first time of many you’d nearly died in their company. 

It had taken a while for them to trust you, but after you inviting yourself onto a few of their cases and saving their asses a handful of times (ignoring the amount of times they saved yours because you forgot that almost every American slept with a gun beneath their pillow) they’d eventually taken you under their proverbial wing. It helped that you had literally nowhere else to go and nothing but the clothes on your back and a bare handful of belongings to your name. Once they figured out you weren’t hiding anything up your sleeve and that you’re just _naturally_ annoying and a little dumb, they’d happily invited you to become an official-unofficial part of their little hunting gang. This means you’re also familiar with the hilarious angel they have in their back pocket. Castiel is a riot and one of the things you miss most when you go off to hunt on your own.

Having been around during the whole ordeal of Lucifer and Michael going through the motions of continuing their family spat on an apocalyptic scale, you too grew to be familiar with their youngest brother, the archangel Gabriel. Of course, while you’d been there for a fair amount of the angel-turned-trickster’s shenanigans, you weren’t there for the final appearance he made at a hotel in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. In complete juxtaposition to the fact that you could count on one hand the amount of times you’d interacted properly with Gabriel, the sensations you experienced at the news of his sacrifice, his _death_ , were unlike anything you’d ever felt before. You like to consider yourself much more emotionally healthy and with an emotional range far larger than that of a teaspoon _and_ the Winchesters’, but that… that news was something that it had taken you months to recover from fully.

And even then, apparently your recovery wasn’t as complete as you’d thought, because hearing what the boys have told you now has made your eyes burn and your stomach turn into a nest of manic bees, your insides lined with flowers and pollen. You think, for a moment, that you just might be sick.

You’re sitting in the library, Gabriel having been taken to a room of his own by one Winchester while the other fills you in before they’re both reunited before you, and you’re in the kind of mood where you sort of want to just sit there and dissociate for a few hours, truthfully. You can tell you’re not going to get that opportunity though, so in the wake of the bombshell they’d just dropped on you about all you’d missed in the past few months—that they had _apparently forgotten_ to tell you over the phone when you checked in occasionally— you do the next best thing you can think of for the moment.

Put it on the backburner, baby.

You massage your temple with your fingers as you lean your head into your hand, a sigh escaping through your nose. “See, this is why it feels like I have been brought on as a babysitter—I leave for a few months and you old men manage to dig up another almost-apocalypse _and_ find and raise Lucifer’s kid?”

“Alright, first of all,” Dean whips out a finger to point at you, filling you with glee. You’ve barely been back a few hours and already you’re stepping back into your favourite “stir-the absolute-shit-out-of-Dean” pants. As always, he is almost pitifully quick to rise to the bait. “Old? Who are you calling old? Alright so _maybe_ we have a few years on you but that’s just because you’re a toddler and w—”

“Dean,” Sam places a placating hand on his brother’s shoulder, a look that seems to be a mixture of amusement and exasperation crossing his features. “You’re making it too easy for her.”

The older Winchester pauses, turning to pin you with an accusing look. You smile, not even attempting to appear innocent. After staring at you for several long moments, Dean makes the ‘eyes-on-you’ gesture with his fingers before turning away, rolling the tension from his shoulders as he takes a seat across from you.

“You were gone for almost a year this time, did you have any luck, well, _leaving?”_ Sam brings your attention back to him, the question dragging out a sigh that feels like it’s been dredged from the very depths of your being.

“No,” you answer, sounding somewhat petulant even to your own ears. “Why is it so hard to leave this god-forsaken country! I hate it here. I’m sick of trying to make a run for it and being zapped back into a swamp, or—or a pool at the top of a penthouse suite in the middle of some random city! It sucks balls.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean waves his hand, enjoying the dirty look you give him. “So you still haven’t found whatever purpose you’re meant to fulfil while here?”

You huff, shaking your head. “No. It’s been _years_ and I still have no idea why I woke up here that day. Or why I can’t _leave._ ”

Over the time you’ve spent with the Winchesters, a few things became apparent to the three of you about your stay here. One, it was indefinite. You’d discovered quickly that you are, quite literally, unable to leave. Every time you get close to escaping this country you black out and wake up back inside. Sometimes in a helpful place, sometimes…. Not.

Two, the three of you had thrown around and entertained the idea that maybe you’d been brought here for a reason, that like _them_ maybe you’d been divinely allocated a role to play. But you’ve been through _a lot_ with the Winchesters, whether in person or by association, and still…

You’re no closer to being able to leave and return from whence you came.

You have no idea why you’re here!

This is something that has really contributed to your temporary career as a hunter here. That isn’t to say that this profession isn’t something you were involved in _before_ you came here, but you’ve really… you really dove into it, whether as a distraction or as an ongoing investigation as to what on earth was going to set you free of your tie to this place. A part of you thinks that each case you take on, each person or family you save and creature you slay might be the one reason that brought you here, and the one task that with its completion will grant you freedom. You’ve never been a fan of being caged; just because this one spans a grand total of 9.834 million square kilometres doesn’t make it any less of one.

This most recent expedition that led you to part from the Winchesters for such a long time was another of your failed attempts to leave. You think you’ve tried escaping at every possible point along the coastline and border by now, with a definite lack of success.

“Well, if it really is some divine intervention keeping you here, then it’s better if you just sit back and settle down, twinkletoes.” Dean huffs a laugh, leaning back in his chair with an accompanying _creak_ from the wood. “Those divine types have proven to be… kind of assholes.”

You frown, but he isn’t saying anything you haven’t already thought. It’s part of why you’d settled so easily into hunting here, actually. ‘ _When in Rome…’_ , as they say. You’re familiar with the hunting grind and there is comfort in familiarity.

“Are you going to stay a while?” Sam asks, opening the first-aid box he’d first brought over when you’d settled down. Ah, right—you’d almost forgotten about the injury on your arm, despite the fact that you are still pressing a palm to it. You listen as he speaks, almost swearing you can detect a hint of hopefulness in his voice. “You still have a room here for you, of course. We haven’t touched anything inside.”

“Yeah, mostly because we didn’t wanna deal with the mess and the booby-trapped doors—” Dean’s under-the-breath mutter is cut off by your coo, a wide smile pulling your lips.

“Oh, you two _missed me_ , didn’t you?” Instantly, you are successful in ruffling Dean’s feathers— Sam might take a bit more work, though. “I know I really light this dark, dingy place up but I didn’t know it was that bad without me! Ah, perhaps I will stay a while. You know, out of charity.”

“Sammy,” Dean says, beseeching. “It’s not too late—you hold her back and I’ll find her key. It’s not too cold, she’ll be alright outside.”

An appalled and affronted look slips onto your face and Sam has to clear his throat so that he doesn’t laugh and add to his brother’s torment.

“I’m not a misbehaving puppy,” you say, holding your arm out for Sam as he comes over and finally freeing your bloody hand. “Wait, unless you _want_ me to be. Been broadening your horizons beyond animated tentacle porn have you, Deanie-bo-beenie?”

On cue, Dean’s face flushes light red, whether from anger or a brief spritz of embarrassment, only God knows. You can see Sam’s face grow tense from the effort of holding back noise in your peripheral as he tends to your arm.

“You know what? I’m better than this. I’m gonna let it go.” Dean rises from his chair, making a show of dusting off your metaphorical drama. His light eyes flick to you, squinting. “I’m tired; I have a date with my memory foam pillow and nice, warm, feather duvet and a good night’s rest, so _goodnight._ I hope your bed has bed bugs, twinkletoes, and I hope they bite.”

“I hope you sleep well too, Dean!” you call after him, deciding you’ll have to give him a break from the bullying tomorrow or else he’ll explode before you can have much fun. “Do you want me to come tuck you in?”

“No! Goodnight!”

His yell and disappearance down the hall is followed a few moments later by the familiar sound of a door slamming shut,

“That’s not very fair of you,” Sam announces, sounding strained and very much like he’s trying not to laugh lest Dean has an ear pressed to his door. “He’s too tired to fight back right now.”

“I know,” you answer, wincing as he wipes down the laceration on your bicep and cleans the blood away with an alcohol wipe. It burns, but it’s definitely not the most painful thing you have ever experienced. “I hadn’t seen you guys in so long, though. I couldn’t help myself.”

Sam simply snorts, reaching for the needle and thread to being stitching the skin back together, and you breathe harshly through your nose as you reach for another topic to distract yourself.

“Are the two—sorry, the _three_ of you actually dads now? To… to Lucifer’s half-angel kid? I thought angels getting frisky with humans was, uh… illegal up in heaven.”

You _feel_ rather than see Sam roll his eyes, your own pointedly directed away from your arm where he has begun to get to work. “It’s Lucifer, y/n, I don’t think he cares about what’s illegal up in heaven.”

You purse your lips—he makes a fair point. Honestly, you feel a little silly for questioning it. “Right, and he’s… trapped in some other dimension? An alternate world where the apocalypse really happened.”

“Yep,” Sam says, hitting a particularly painful spot with his needle. You hiss, giving him a glare.

“I wasn’t even gone a year! Just hearing all this shit is stressing me out so much, dude.” You sigh, attempting to adjust your position in the wooden chair without jostling your arm too much. Thankfully, practice has made Sam quick at his job and already he is almost done piecing you back together. He finishes up with a knot, snipping the thread and then placing a large bandage carefully over the wound. He dusts his hands once done, standing from where he was leaning against the table and proceeding to loom over you like a T-Rex.

“You’re blocking my light, bro,” you inform him, narrowly avoiding a subsequent good-natured smack to your good arm. “Damn, what the hell! Didn’t you take an oath or some shit? I’m your patient!”

“I was studying _law_ , not medicine,” Sam retorts dryly. He turns to leave and put the first aid supplies away, his back facing you but not before you see how his lips twitch. “So _your_ annoying ass is free game.”

“Maybe so,” you acquiesce, rising from your seat with a light grunt as you jostle your arm. You consider asking Sam where Castiel is, to see if you can get a hit of the good stuff and skip the healing process, but think better of it. You always feel a bit bad asking him to heal you, though you barely ever have to since he’s like a rabid mother hen the second he sees blood on any of you. “God, I’m beat. I didn’t think I could get any more tired than I was before, but as always catching up with you two has aged me a few years and now I’m just about as tired as you two are all the time.”

Sam doesn’t rise to the ‘old man’ bait you dangle in front of him—never really does, if you’re being honest; that’s mostly Dean’s vice— but he does offer you a smile that is unexpectedly sincere and fond.

“Go to bed, toddler,” he retorts, before continuing in a softer tone, “… It’s good to see you again, y/n. I’m glad you’re here. Dean and Mom are going out on a hunt in the next few days and I think you can really help with, uh… the whole Gabriel thing.”

For a moment, you don’t say anything. You’d sort of been trying to avoid thinking about the elephant in your mind, for the very same reason that makes your eyes burn once more. It hurts, a lot, thinking and _imagining_ what he must have gone through at the hands of Asmodeus. It feels like your heart is going to tear itself to pieces in your chest from the sheer extent of your empathy and how terrible you feel for him. The Gabriel you saw cowering before you earlier is nothing like the confident feathery asshole you used to know.

Even having only seen him once, it’s enough to make you fearful of the possibility that… he might be too far gone to ever return to that last echo of his previous self.

“I’m not sure what I’ll even be able to do to help,” you respond, approaching the doorway to the hall with your bag in tow. You pause to finish what you’re saying, meeting Sam’s puppy-like gaze from across the room. “But I’ll try. It hurts to see him like that, so… I’ll stay a while, to do whatever I can.”

Sam’s answering thankful smile and nod is all you can ask for in response as you turn and head further into the bunker, dragging your bags back to the room you’d come to call your own over the years. Your gaze strays on the way to one of the doors that has a little note taped on saying, ‘ _please do not open suddenly or loudly’_ , undoubtedly the room that they have allocated to Gabriel for the time being. Heart heavy in your chest, you continue on down the hall and tear your gaze away.

You’re not sure how much you can do for him, but you hope you can do _something._


	2. those damn stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baby steps are still steps, and that is still very much the case with gabriel as you attempt to begin an abridged form of angel rehabilitation. it's going well so far, but will it last?

Much to your regret, your plans the next morning to continue being a nuisance to Dean are thrown in the bin at his decision to leave early and meet Castiel somewhere a state over for a case that the angel had found. Something about vamps in a mine or something, you’re a bit hazy on the details. You’d only half-listened when Sam filled you in upon your arrival in the kitchen, a good hour after Dean had already departed the bunker.

While you would like to say Dean is completely to blame, the truth is that once you passed out last night you slept like a log and didn’t wake up until mid-morning today, which classifies as a sleep-in of sorts for you. You love sleep, but your body is wired to wake up not long after sunrise, unfortunately. It’s that hunter lifestyle you love to hate.

Sam had huffed a laugh at your face when you found out you’d missed Dean, but otherwise had kept to himself with his healthy breakfast as you went about making yourself a coffee. You tend to be a bit nauseous in the mornings, so a coffee will be enough for you for a few hours. It’s likely your stomach won’t roar in hunger until a bit after midday, as it is wont to do.

“How is your arm?”

Sam’s question breaks you out of the dissociative state you’d slipped into as you sip your coffee, grip on the mug tightening in reflex. It takes a few blinks before your eyes focus back on him, a small smile on your lips.

“Much better, thank you doctor,” you answer, before mumbling into your coffee as you take another sip. “Despite apparent attempts at making it otherwise…”

Sam snorts, not even bothering to comment on that. “I’m glad. Did you have anything planned for the day?”

A contemplative hum escapes you, your gaze wandering to the ceiling. “No, not really. I kind of went hard for a while there, one case after the other, so I’m due for a break. Not much of a fan of burnout.”

Your eyes move back down, meeting his own. “I’m probably going to just hang back, for a bit. Recuperate. I mean, I didn’t get any injury besides my arm, but I’m just… tired, I suppose. Didn’t get much sleep the past few weeks.”

“Of course you didn’t hurt anything but your arm,” Sam rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his smoothie—you’re not a fan of the green tinge it has, but if he likes it then you suppose it must be _alright_ , at least. “You and your stupid good luck. Dean is still mad about last time, you know. When he got splattered in monster guts that just missed you by a centimetre.”

The memory yanks a giggle out of you before you can stop it, almost spilling your coffee as a result of the abrupt movement. “Oh, that was good. I wish I had a picture so I could scrapbook it.”

Sam laughs around a mouthful of food, swallowing it down before he continues. “Dean would kill you.”

“I know, but it would be worth it.” You place your cup down, deciding it a better course of action than continuing to hold it and risking spillage. “Also, I know you think my luck is really good all the time, but it’s kind of just good occasionally. All other times, it sucks.”

“It kicks in when you hunt, though, so I suppose that’s all that matters,” Sam muses, flicking through an article on his phone somewhat distractedly. He hums to himself before turning the screen off and angling his body to you properly, meeting your questioning gaze.

“I’m… I’m gonna need your help,” he says, appearing somewhat sheepish. “With Gabriel.”

You try not to let your sharp intake of breath show, but from the look that flickers through Sam’s eyes you figure he catches it anyway. Your teeth worry your bottom lip for a moment before you can muster a proper response. “Alright. What are you thinking of doing?”

Sam adjusts once more, pushing his plate away, cutlery stacked on top; it’s only now that you realise he’s finished the meal and the only thing left to consume is his smoothie.

“Well, I’m not… entirely sure yet.”

You huff a laugh, attempting to regain a sense of normalcy. It isn’t that you’d forgotten about the battered archangel hiding in a room a few doors down from yours, but it’s moreso that you’d made it a point not to think about it so early in the morning, lest your mood be ruined for the entire day. Thinking of Gabriel… it kind of hurt. You’re not sure you’re ready to sit down and analyse exactly _why_ you’re having such visceral reactions yet.

“I don’t think we can really plan much, here,” he says, features softening with empathy. It reminds you that when it comes to Hell and being tortured, the youngest Winchester isn’t as unfamiliar as you might hope. A pang of something hits against the confines of your chest at his tone and the passing look in his eyes; as always, there’s the useless feeling, the wish you could take away all the bad memories and experiences and make it all better. You know you can’t, nothing can, but you hate seeing your friends in any modicum of pain.

You suppose that includes Gabriel, if the sensations whirling within you at the thought of him are anything to go by.

“We’ll just have to take it as it comes,” you say, taking your mug into your hold and downing the rest of the drink in one go. “Alright! I’m gonna shower and then… I guess we go see him.”

**x x**

Unlike the Gabriel you were once so familiar with, this Gabriel is decidedly not fond of visitors.

Sam had gone and prepared some things while you’d showered and dressed, and by the time you reappear outside your room you hear shuffling from the direction of the library. Curious, you make your way down the hall, peeking your head in and blinking in only minor surprise at the sight of Sam, his shoulders heavy.

“What’s up, Sam-o-saurus?”

Sam looks up and gives you the closest approximation to a bitch face that you’ve ever received from him, clearly not fond of the new nickname that came to you on the spot like a divine enlightenment. He takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe, though, which is probably for the best considering your mission for the day. It would do none of you any good if he went near Gabriel while all riled up.

“Gabriel is, uh,” he clears his throat, placing down a sterile steel tray in the shape of a bean and small surgical scissors, along with a scalpel. Your gaze strays to the side and sees that it was the first aid box he’d been ransacking as you arrived. “Not very open to visitation from me right now. I think I might be a bit… bit big. He doesn’t really even see me when he looks at me, so I don’t think he realises who I am.”

You wince, trying not to dwell on the information longer than needed to file it away for later consideration. “Oh. Sorry, Sam. You want me to go see if I can bring him out?”

“Please,” the tall man says, gesturing to the tools on the glossy oak table. “I figured we could start by getting rid of those stitches over his mouth, if nothing else. I don’t think he has enough grace right now to stop infection so we should try and reduce the risk.”

His words sadden you, but you know the truth they hold. Your limbs feel a bit heavy as you push away from the doorway.

“Alright. I’ll be right back.”

Gabriel’s allocated room isn’t all that far from the library, and the note on the door sticks out like a sore thumb so you don’t have to worry much about getting lost on the way (ignoring that at this point you know most parts of the bunker like the back of your hand). Once outside his room, something gives you pause though.

Are you ready to see him in that state again? Or is it that a small, tiny part of you fears he won’t recognise you, either?

Ridiculous of you, really. You take a moment to admonish yourself for the thought. If you take a second to factor in the difference in time spent in hell, even without considering all the time he was missing, Gabriel had to have been trapped and tortured for over a century _at the very least._ Centuries and years might mean nothing to a celestial being who has been alive for millennia, but over a century of fear and torture is a lot even for someone with such impressive mileage.

You shake your head, attempting to clear your thoughts and emotions so you don’t enter his room with an overwhelming aura. Okay, showtime.

A soft knock echoes as your knuckles meet the wood, a moment passing before you speak, attempting to keep your voice as soft and nonthreatening as possible.

“Gabriel? It’s y/n, I’m going to come in now.”

You allow another moment to pass before you ease the door open, blinking in surprise as your eyes are greeted by light—it seems the archangel has every bulb in the vicinity burning its brightest. Understandable, since you presume he wasn’t exactly kept in well-lit conditions.

For a second, you think he’s not in the room. You don’t see him anywhere, and you’re about a split-second away from turning and calling Sam when you catch a glimpse of something shifting in the corner, behind the bulky side of a wooden dresser. You think for a second that you’ve forgotten how to breathe, chest painfully tight, as you realise that the small form huddled and curled in the corner is, in fact, the archangel Gabriel.

You hate that you’d noticed him only because of the filthy scraps of material that stick out against the dark décor of the bunker.

“Hey, Gabriel,” you say softly, keeping the door open so he has a route of escape and moving over as slowly and cautiously as you can. “I’m just gonna come over and sit in front of you, alright?”

You figure that even if he’s not _entirely_ listening to everything you’re saying, it’s better to announce what you’re doing before you do it, for his benefit.

Something painful ricochets off the inside of your chest as you grow close enough to see him around the dresser and you’re confronted with his beaten, bloody and battered figure once more. His gaze is anywhere but you, and the way he presses himself into the corner is like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. It takes all of your willpower to squash down the unexpected sob that catches low in your throat. What is _wrong_ with you?! You need to get a grip.

“Oh, Gabriel,” you find yourself saying before you can stop. “I’m so sorry…”

The closer you get to him, the lower you try to make yourself in his peripheral. It wouldn’t do any good to startle him by appearing big and threatening. It makes you frown when you remember just _who_ it is that you have to think this way about. It’s sad, you think. The Gabriel you’d known was prideful, glaringly bright and _loud_ in his presence, both as a trickster and an angel, and that he’d been reduced to… well, to _this_? It made your chest feel heavy.

Slowly and as quietly as possible, you ease down onto your knees in front of him, doing your best not to rush anything. It’s hard—you’re a hunter, used to moving with speed and a sense of urgency. So to take your time and really _be_ in the moment for each of your actions is definitely an odd change from the usual autopilot your brain resides in.

He doesn’t acknowledge your presence once you’re still in front of him, not really. You had expected as much though, and as much as he seems unresponsive you do see the occasional flick of his eyes in your direction before they dart away, like he couldn’t believe he’d dared to look at someone instead of the floor.

For a few minutes, you simply let him adjust to your presence, your company. Ever so slowly, you see the tiniest bits of tension ease from his shoulders, his eyes no longer darting around like a frantic squirrel. You take the opportunity to take in the wounds and sores littering his body, doing your best not to get too upset by what you see. Dirt and grime coats him in layers, and you mentally note that your next goal with him would be to get him in a damn _bath._

_It can’t be comfortable, sitting in all that grime…_

“For the sake of transparency,” you begin when he seems like he will be open enough to listening. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. This is your space right now, and I don’t want to intrude on it unless I really need to.”

He doesn’t meet your gaze, but you sense you have his attention. “Given that right now you’re low on… _strength_ , and not healing as you usually do, we need to take care of some of the worse wounds you have. If we don’t, it’s a risk of infection, and we don’t know how well you would fight that off in this state…”

You clear your throat, attempting to keep yourself on track. “So, if you’re able, we’d really like you to come out just for a moment, so we can fix up some of your sores. I promise that you can come right back in here afterwards, and that unless we have something really important we’ll leave you alone. Sound good?”

He doesn’t nod, doesn’t really move, but the way his eyes move to yours and hold your gaze for a bare second longer than you expect, you gather he’s not entirely against it. You offer him a smile, oddly proud of him. You’d seen firsthand how hard it can be to get out of these mindsets, even just for a moment. Effort is hard and that he’s _making_ it means everything.

“Perfect,” you say, shifting in your spot so you can stand more easily. “Alright, I can help you up, if you’d like, or you can stand on your own if you want. What do y—”

Your hands had already begun to outstretch as you spoke, and you’re taken by surprise when before you even finish speaking his hand is whipping up to grab your wrist in a sort of monkey grip. You’re left blinking as you help him up, moving on autopilot. You expect him to release you as soon as he’s standing, but it adds to your surprise as he wobbles in place and retains his grip, if anything shuffling a little closer.

“Okay,” you say, angling your body and adjusting your grip so that it’s loose and as nonthreatening as possible. “Let’s go. Thank you for cooperating.”

Of course, there’s no response and he’s silent the whole way to the library. You remember that Sam is in there only as you approach the threshold, but unlike what you feared, Gabriel doesn’t seem to react too poorly to him like he apparently had earlier. Risking a glance his way reveals that actually, amongst the frayed and almost manic energy, he seems oddly… _grounded_ , just for the moment.

Well, this is certainly going better than you’d anticipated.

**x**

“I went to bully Dean this morning, but he woke up before me and left before I could get to him.”

You’re in the process of cleaning the wounds around Gabriel’s mouth and removing the ugly stitches that have been sewn into his lips. As something to distract him as much as you from what you’re doing, you’ve begun chatting idly to the archangel, unbothered by the lack of response. Sam sits a metre or so away, researching for Dean who had apparently called earlier when you were coercing Gabriel out of his room.

Still Gabriel doesn’t hold your gaze, eyes averted as he leans forward in the chair for you to reach his mouth, but you can tell from the way his eyes occasionally flick to you as you speak that he is listening, somewhat. It’s enough of a win that you’re willing to take it.

He winces each time your alcohol swab goes over the entry point of a stitch, but doesn’t flinch away too badly. You’re pretty proud of him for that, actually, because it must hurt like a bitch.

“You got him yesterday, though,” Sam pipes in from the side, amused as he recalls your arrival. “Barely an hour after you got here and he was quitting and heading to bed.”

“It’s hard being so naturally talented,” you say, placing the swab down and reaching for the small scissors and tweezers. “I’m an absolute delight, and Dean should appreciate that!”

“Has anyone ever believed you when you told them that?” Sam asks, presumably referring to the ‘delight’ bit.

“Why wouldn’t they, Samuel?” you ask, giving the massive man a light spritz of stink-eye. “Do you have something to say to me?”

“Nothing you don’t already know,” he snorts in response, turning a page in the tome he currently has in his lap.

You bite your lip to hide your amused smile, turning back to Gabriel. You place your hand softly on his cheek to let him know that you’re about to go back in for the stitches, before raising the other tool and bringing it to the first of the thick threads woven through his flesh. Wincing, you try and snip it as delicately as possible. Now seems like a better time than any for more distractions.

“If you think _I’m_ bad, you should be glad you never met my grandfather,” you inform the youngest Winchester, successfully severing the first stitch and beginning the icky job of pulling it out. Gabriel makes a muffled noise of pain but remains still, and you pat his hand softly in support. “He could stir the shit out of _anyone_ , man. Like, I’m not even kidding. The bastard gene I got from him was actually watered down by the time it got to me, so count your lucky stars.”

Sam makes a noise of contemplation, like he really is taking the time to thank whatever powers that be— those apparently being _Chuck,_ as you’ve heard _—_ that you’re not more like your grandfather. Honestly, you’re not kidding—they really should be grateful. You loved your grandpa but you’d never met anyone so quick to stir whatever pot may present itself before them. An opportunist with bastardous tendencies, one might describe him.

In the silence that follows, you jump to another topic for the sake of distraction once more—you’re about to move onto another stitch.

“So, now that your mother is here, are you guys actually eating like normal human beings?” you ask, tongue pressed between your lips in concentration as you try to snip the thread as painlessly as possible by manoeuvring the small scissors. “Like, balanced meals with vegetables and shit?”

You hear Sam pause in the motion of turning a page, a scoff turning into a laugh as it climbs his throat. “What—homecooked meals? Our mom? Dude, she’s worse than _Dean_ in the kitchen, and I really didn’t think that was possible.”

You pause your ministrations to face the tall man, squinting. “What? No way. No way is she worse than _Dean—”_

“We’ve had to replace the fire alarms twice already,” Sam says, meeting your gaze with a look that is full of both fondness and exasperation. He lets out a laugh at your flabbergasted face. “Dude, I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t seen it for myself. You’ll see, whenever she gets back with Jack. She can’t cook but it doesn’t really stop her trying.”

“Another terrible chef joins the ranks,” you proclaim dramatically, pulling the stitch you were working on out and going in on the next one. “Oh, to be able to cook. I suppose this Jack kid is our last hope.”

“He’s not even a year old, y/n,” Sam says, deadpan. “I wouldn’t count on it. Also, you can cook, you’re just lazy.”

You shrug, making a face; he has you there. “I will neither confirm nor deny these allegations.”

Once more, you _feel_ Sam roll his eyes behind you—he should get that checked if he’s rolling them so heavily you can feel it yourself. They’re not even eyes that are in your own skull, man.

You proceed to pull shit out of your ass as you take Gabriel’s mouth stitches out, the metal tin to the side soon filled with scraps of thick thread covered in dried blood and muck. The exit wounds where the thread had been have begun to well with blood, the wounds agitated by the removal of the stitches, and you bring a new cotton pad back with alcohol to clean them up. Gabriel hisses at the contact, and you rush out apologies under your breath as you finish up. You’d forgotten to warn him, and it’s only something small but you still feel bad.

“Alright, that’s done,” you announce, mostly to yourself. You look over him, deciding which wound to treat next, when your attention is drawn to the way he seems to be shaking a little on the spot. He’s not as grounded as he was earlier when he sat down with you, and even though you have much more work to do you can tell intrinsically that this is the most he can take right now. Dressing his other wounds would have to wait until tomorrow.

You turn to find Sam already giving the archangel a scrutinising look, apparently arriving at the same conclusion you had. He gives you a nod and you let out a soft breath, turning back to Gabriel and offering your hands should he need them.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for today. Let’s get you back to the room.”

You can only hope tomorrow will offer the same amount of progress as today.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright,” He finally breaks after your third stick of celery, giving it a look like it personally offends him. “How can you eat that? Just use a spoon if you like peanut butter so much.”
> 
> “What the fuck, ew,” you comment, chomping loudly before dipping the stick into the jar for another coating. “I hate peanut butter.”
> 
> “You’re sitting there practically eating it out of the jar!”
> 
> “I get cravings sometimes, Dean!” you throw back, somewhat defensively. “It’s like when people eat vegemite—no one likes it, but you get cravings for it, you know?”

“Well, whatever it says, we’re gonna have to wait until Cas and Dean get back before we can decipher it.”

You huff, sparing a glance to the angel huddled in the corner, resting his head against the drawers beside his bed. It’s been a few days since you’d first come back and you wish you could say you’ve had all sorts of good progress with Gabriel, but the truth is that you haven’t. He has receded so far into himself that a part of you is actually worried the archangel you knew is gone completely.

“I’m a bit worried,” you admit quietly to Sam after a moment. He turns his gaze to you and you hold it. “He’s… he’s worse than I thought.”

And, put bluntly, you’d thought he was _bad._

Sam doesn’t say anything, merely releases your gaze and turns to survey the room once more; the walls are plastered in a scrambled mess of what you can only guess is enochian. You’re not sure when Gabriel had the chance to do it, but you know that earlier you’d visited him to offer him a portion of his grace back and he’d refused, so you’d left and when you returned some time later the walls were like this.

“Did Dean say when they were going to be getting back?” you ask, wringing your hands.

“He didn’t respond to my text, so I can only assume he’s driving.” Sam huffed a laugh. “Cas forgot to charge his phone again so I can’t reach him either.”

You purse your lips, trying not to smile. Of course, it is the little things that Castiel forgets. Like that wireless technology needs charging, that Beyonce is too well known to be used as a cover name, and those straws that don’t always come with fast food drinks.

You’re about to speak when the faint sound of metal hitting metal echoes through the bunker, heavy footsteps on steel stairs following suit.

“Well, I guess that saves us asking,” you say, patting Sam on the arm as you move past. The two of you depart Gabriel’s room, sparing him one last concerned glance before you close the door behind you.

“ _I’m home! And I brought food!”_

Yeah, that’s definitely Dean. You just hope Castiel came in with him so he can see his brother and read the scribble on the walls.

**x x**

The scribble, as Castiel informed you, is a thrilling account of Gabriel’s Story, so to speak. What happened to him after his so-called ‘death’, and you tuned out for a fair amount of it (mostly during the detailed recount of time spent with porn-stars in Monte Carlo) but heard the important bits, like how he was traded in to Asmodeus and what the Prince of Hell then proceeded to do to him for the years following.

It saddened you, despite it being largely something you already suspected if not knew.

After listening to Castiel read the enochian on the walls, you’d had to leave. Uncharacteristic of you, and Dean had given you an odd look as you passed him in the hallway, but you couldn’t spend another minute in there. You felt bile rising to the back of your throat.

You really don’t have an explanation for _why_ you’re reacting so strongly, so _viscerally_ , to everything that has to do with Gabriel. Like you’d affirmed earlier, you only really met and interacted with him a handful of times! You aren’t close with him, haven’t known him extensively—

So _why_ do you have this gaping pit of loss and grief in your stomach, like you’ve lost a limb?

It doesn’t make sense, and you’re not sure if you can _make_ it make sense, honestly. You’d like to be able to put it on the backburner too, but every time you try it just creeps its way back to the forefront of your mind. In a bid to distract yourself, you hole yourself up in your room for the rest of the day, marathoning whatever dumb show is on TV. If you’re lucky, the entertainment channel might have old reruns of _Neighbours._ That never fails to make you laugh with its exaggerated soapy drama.

To your disappointment, the only thing playing in a marathon fashion is Family Guy, and with a sigh you bundle up in your covers and resign yourself to the afternoon. Well, if you wanted to numb your brain then this result isn’t so bad after all.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in your room, and pass out at some indiscernible hour. When you wake next, it’s a ridiculously early hour of the next morning and the TV is still running. You have a cramp in your neck from your odd sleeping position, and you rub it with a scowl as you emerge from the blankets and turn off the TV. You slept way too long, and there’s no way you can get back to sleep now.

Begrudgingly, you slip from your bed and into a standing position, relishing in the stretch you feel as you lengthen your tight, tense limbs. The floor is cold against your feet but you’re too lazy to search for the slippers that came with your room and instead just go on your way. Destination: kitchen.

You feel like a ghost, wandering the silent halls of the bunker. Dean is most definitely passed out by this point, and Sam… well he’s probably asleep, but you wouldn’t bet on it. That psychopath could also be out _jogging._ You’re so zoned out that you don’t even realise you’ve reached the kitchen until you stub your toe on the doorframe.

“FUCK!” you curse, managing to restrain yourself from howling like a lunatic just barely, at the last second. You double over, heaving in a big breath. Of course it had to be the little toe—

“y/n? Are you alright?”

The low, gravelly tone that brushes your ears is familiar and always welcome. You stick your thumb up so Castiel doesn’t worry while you grasp your bearings. When you find your voice, you follow up the gesture with a squeaky, “Fine! Peachy.”

“I would remind you that I can tell when you are lying, but I don’t think you aimed to be very believable.”

You straighten, throwing Castiel a bright smile despite the pain still throbbing in your foot. You should have looked for the slippers—this is your hubris catching you slipping.

“Sorry Cas, I shouldn’t be sarcastic. I’m fine, but I think one of these days I’m gonna break my toe for real on that stupid doorframe.”

Unfortunately, this isn’t your first run-in with the doorway. If anyone asked, you would tell them that the design of the hallway is atrocious and that door is not where it’s meant to be. Well, it’s not where you _expect_ it to be every time you come to the kitchen, and is clearly an obvious design flaw.

The angel lets out a soft noise of understanding, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “Perhaps. You don’t seem to have very good luck with doorframes.”

“Nope, I definitely do not,” you respond, shaking your foot out before moving over to the fridge and checking to see if Dean bought strawberries. A noise of delight escapes you as you find what you’re looking for, several punnets stacked in the back corner. Ah, and they say old dogs can’t learn new tricks—Dean is a very good learner with the proper motivation!

(Pavlov would be proud of you.)

Castiel has a smile on his face as he watches you remove one of the punnets, hopping up onto the bench facing him and flicking the plastic open. He approaches, movements fluid and calm, and for a few moments you sit in comfortable silence. He is the first to break it.

“y/n… are you alright?” At his repeated question you give him a confused look, and he hurries to elaborate. “I mean… with everything. With Gabriel. I noticed how you left, yesterday.”

Ah. Well, you knew that you hadn’t been subtle, but you hadn’t been sure whether anyone was going to question you on it. You munch on a berry as you think, gaze flicking to the side. You wouldn’t dream of telling Sam or Dean about the odd sensations you’d been feeling, despite the fact they knew how you’d reacted to the news of Gabriel’s death, but Castiel… you felt comfortable confiding this in him.

“Well… yes, and no.” You drop the top of the strawberry into the lid of the punnet and reach for another. “To be honest, I don’t really understand what is going on with me. It’s like… super overactive empathy. It just hurts, to see him that way. And it makes me sad, knowing what he went through. Painfully so.”

Castiel nods, light eyes on you as he listens attentively and with care. You chew through another two berries before continuing. “Hearing it straight from him—well, as straight from him as it could be, I suppose—it just got to be a bit much for me. I had to leave. It just… made me feel a bit sick, is all.”

The look on the angel’s face is pensive, and it’s as though you can see his mind whirring a mile a minute behind the sky of his eyes. “I see,” he murmurs, gaze flicking to the side as he thinks. “Well, you are a very kind soul, so I am not surprised by your empathy. Though, if it is affecting you so strongly…”

He pauses, eyes finding your own again. “If you feel ill again, come find me. I’ll help as much as I can.”

You smile at him, every moment as sincere as you’ve ever been. “Thanks, Cas. I really appreciate it.”

**x x**

Sam must have done or said something to Gabriel while you were locked up in your room, because there seemed to be a sudden change in his progress.

For the better, you think. Well, you _hope._

He was a little less withdrawn, a little less manic and fidgety. He still doesn’t really speak, and doesn’t react well to loud noises or sudden movements, but Sam told you he had spoken last night.

To correct him about calling the Monte Carlo porn-stars ‘hookers’, of course. You’d wanted to slam your head into the tile wall when you’d heard that.

The day passed quickly after your encounter with Castiel, and you spent it cleaning and polishing your weapons—you don’t want to go down as that one stupid hunter whose greatest folly was improper upkeep of her arsenal. Only when you’d polished your machete to a gleaming shine did you admit that it was likely time for a break. You thought it had only been a few hours, so when you wandered out and found that it was actually almost dinner time, you’d been pretty surprised.

Sam had run into you in the hallway and filled you in, and afterwards had insisted on accompanying you to the kitchen. It seems you spend a lot of your time there, now you think about it.

The large, industrial-feeling space is where you find yourself now, making a lazy stir-fry from pre-packaged vegetables and beef. You’d tasked Sam with cooking the rice since he’d insisted on lingering for conversation, and since you trust that he’s more capable than his brother you don’t bother checking on his progress.

“Castiel was worried when he first saw Gabriel, but after seeing the writing he’s happy because it means the Gabriel we know is still in there, somewhere.” Sam updates you from your side, sniffing and peering into the wok before you in mild interest. “That smells good. You sharing?”

“Maybe,” you answer him, giving him a sly look. “Depends… you got any of that guilt-free ice cream hiding in the freezer?”

Sam peers around to make sure his brother isn’t listening before nodding, “Back corner, behind the frozen berries. We got a deal?”

“Pleasure doing business with you, young Winchester,” you answer with a shake of his hand, putting on an accent for his benefit. He snorts, moving away to grab two bowls—good timing, you have to note, since the stir-fry is almost done. “Kind of sad you still have to hide it from Dean, though.”

“Are you kidding? He has a nose like a bloodhound for sweets,” Sam says, coming back with porcelain in tow. “Did I ever tell you about the time he found an industrial-size bag of Hershey’s kisses I bought? I hid it in the vents in the dustiest corner of the library, and he still found it. That was meant to last me _months_ and he tore through it in a week.”

You blink, mildly impressed. You knew he had a sweet tooth but you didn’t know it was _that_ bad. “Dude, get your brother some therapy.”

Sam snorts, muttering something about how it would be easier to herd cats and juggle at the same time. You’re distracted for the moment by an errant thought that filters across your mind at the mention of chocolates.

Gabriel, in his time spent as a trickster, developed quite the soft spot for them… could it…?

You stir the food before you once more before taking the wok off the heat, moving it to the wooden chopping board on the bench; Sam takes initiative and turns off the stove behind you, something you’re thankful for.

You’ll have to test your theory after dinner.

**x x**

The chocolates and candies you’d left for Gabriel after you’d had your dinner are, to your delight, gone the next time you see him.

You’d placed them on a tray for him outside the room and knocked, letting him know you had left him something. Of course, after that no matter how much you wished to stay you forced yourself to be on your merry way so he could retrieve them in peace. The rest of the night had been spent arguing with Dean about the proper name a werewolf-vampire hybrid should be called—not because you have an important opinion on the matter, of course, but because Dean gets very fired up about the subject and it’s very funny to behold.

Back to the point, when you’d returned on your trip past Gabriel’s room this morning (on your way to the kitchen, as anyone would expect), the tray had been placed neatly to the side with the wrappers twisted into the shape of a big, shiny bow. Kind of impressive, especially since you have no idea how he got them to stay stuck together like that.

It made you happy, though, that he’d eaten them. Angels don’t need to eat, of course, but he’d seemed to develop a taste for them ever since adopting the mask of Loki so you thought it might help make him feel a little more like himself.

You try not to think about it too much because it actually makes you a bit embarrassed— why are you so invested? You don’t quite want to know.

Currently, you’re settled in the library with your legs crossed and a tome on celestial beings in your lap. By your side is a plate of celery and a jar of peanut butter, and Dean, who is seated at the oak table with Castiel across from him, is giving you periodic looks of disgust and twisted curiosity. He’d started off attempting to read up on some monster—you suspected it was Werepires, after last night’s argument—while Sam popped off to the store for groceries, since Mary and Jack were meant to be returning tonight. The keyword to note here is _attempting_ ; each crunch of celery between your teeth yanks his gaze from the book to you and you can tell its wearing on him. Castiel says nothing, having discovered candy crush on his phone earlier, and merely glances between the two of you every now and then with a faint look of amusement.

“Alright,” He finally breaks after your third stick of celery, giving it a look like it personally offends him. “How can you _eat_ that? Just use a spoon if you like peanut butter so much.”

“What the fuck, ew,” you comment, chomping loudly before dipping the stick into the jar for another coating. “I hate peanut butter.”

“You’re sitting there practically eating it out of the jar!”

“I get cravings sometimes, Dean!” you throw back, somewhat defensively. “It’s like when people eat vegemite—no one _likes_ it, but you get cravings for it, you know?”

“What— _ew_ , no, I _don’t_ know!” Dean’s face has now crumpled into a complete look of disgust at the mention of that particular spread, and he shudders as he regards you. “Every time you leave I almost forget what a freak you are, and then you come back and I’m reminded all over again.”

The way he says it has no bite whatsoever, and you flash him a grin. You don’t realise Castiel has even been paying attention until he speaks, the humour lacing his deadpan tone the only give-away that he’s teasing.

“That wasn’t very nice, Dean. You eat some weird things for a human yourself—like that greasy, fried dessert from the stall in the food festival we drove through.”

Dean at first looks like he wants to argue, but at Castiel’s example a flush of green instead washes over his features. “Ugh, god that was gross. Don’t ever let me buy before I try at a food market again, Cas.”

Castiel snorts softly, turning back to his phone, “You have my word.”

Dean seems to have forgotten he was shaming you for your celery topping, his attention now directed back to the book before him. His face is still kind of pale and you assume he is now adequately distracted enough for you to continue eating in peace. After consuming the rest of the celery in your hold, you go to turn back to your own book. It isn’t meant to be, though, because in the next second the familiar sound of the heavy metal bunker door creaking open splits the air and Sam’s bright voice follows after.

“We’re back! We brought fried chicken.”

You slam the lid back on the peanut butter, putting it on the plate with the celery and launching to your feet in record time, the book unfortunate collateral. It’s like you’re possessed as you zoom into the kitchen, stomach alive and stirring at the mention of chicken despite the fact you’d already been eating.

Upon entry to the kitchen, you’re faced with two new people you have yet to be introduced to—considering you’re familiar with most of Sam and Dean’s other contacts by this point in your friendship, you presume that these two must be Jack and Mary, the Nephilim and the Winchester brother’s resurrected mother, respectively.

“Hello!” you greet, darting forward to help Sam with the food. He gives you a look that tells you he knows _exactly_ why you’d come to help and gives you the bag full of groceries instead of the one with chicken, just to spite you. Your face falls into a pout but your voice is still cheery as you continue, “I’m y/n, I hunt with Dean off and on.”

Both of their faces light in recognition, and you realise that your reputation has preceded you. Exactly which reputation depends on which brother mentioned you—you imagine Dean would have had some very interesting comments to add.

“Hello,” the woman, Mary, speaks, and you’re taken aback by how soft-spoken she seems in contrast with the badass aura and get-up she’s got going on. You’re a little surprised to see her, considering she’s the same age as you presume she would have been when Sam was a baby. “I’m Mary, I’m sure you’ve heard about me. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and… thank you for looking after my boys over the years.”

You beam a grin and it must come across as a very shit-eating one because you hear Dean groan from the next room over as he ambles to join the crowd in the kitchen.

“Don’t encourage her,” he says gruffly as he enters the kitchen, hugging his mother and ruffling Jack’s hair before following his nose to the bag with the chicken in it. “She’ll never let it go.”

“I’m Jack!” Your attention is torn from the previous interaction and redirected to the youthful blonde man next to Mary, grinning at you brightly. “I’ve heard so much about you—it’s nice to finally meet you!”

“Oh, you’ve heard about me?” you can’t help yourself from asking, and you hear Dean’s groan echo behind you. “All good things, I hope.”

It’s a little unfair of you to be fishing in the Jack pond for little tidbits you can use to bully Dean later, considering he’s literally barely a year old and doesn’t really know better to keep his mouth shut, but it is what it is. The question left you out of habit more than anything.

“Oh, definitely,” Jack answers, going to help Mary the second he sees her struggle with a bag from the corner of his eyes, “Well, mostly. Dean—”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Dean interrupted loudly and pointedly, not-so-subtly holding his finger to his mouth to tell Jack to shut it. “Dinner time! Everyone into the library, we have a lot to catch up on.”

Begrudgingly you let it go and follow his directions. He has a point; there is definitely a lot of informing to be done, especially regarding the archangel in the room down the hall.

You take a seat and wait for your meal to be served. The night passes quickly from that point on, the brothers cracking out some beer and Dean snickering when you turn your nose up at it (bad experience, better not to remember it). You get to know Mary Winchester and Jack Kline a little better, and now with all of your heads put together you hope you can come up with a solution to the issues around Gabriel and his recovery.

Well, that _and_ you’re going to see if you can get some good material out of Mary to tease the brothers with. When in Rome, after all!


	4. partners in crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he's getting better, you think. You just hope it will last.

“Alright, Jack, I’m going to show you something _really_ important, something you can’t tell _anyone_ about _._ Not even Dean. Alright?”

The blonde before you hastily nods, eyes wide as he gives you his whole attention. It’s almost childlike, the way he puts everything he has into every activity he does—even nodding to show you he’s listening to what you’re saying.

You know that he is being truthful, and that if you ask him he won’t tell a soul, but for effect you keep your eyes trapping his own, just for a few moments longer. When you’ve ‘deemed’ him trustworthy enough, you let your expression drop into a smile and you smack your hand affectionately against his bicep.

“Great! I knew I could trust you. To be honest, you can maybe tell the others, but definitely not Dean. If Dean finds out…” you make a solemn face. “This whole operation will go down in flames. Got it?”

“Yes, I understand.” Jack says, fidgeting on the spot—he’s curious about what you’re going to show him, you can tell from the way every so often his eyes will flit about, searching the room behind you for something that might give away what you’re talking about. He gives you a bright grin, as though to show that he is ready.

“Excellent,” you say, clasping your hands together. “Follow me.”

You turn and begin moving over to the corner of the room, knowing without even having to check that Jack is following you—like a little duckling, if memory serves you right. You’ve only known him a few days but you know for sure that if anything happened to him you would be killing everyone in this bunker and then yourself. Rosa Diaz has it right.

“Alright, pass me that chair.” As soon as you come to a stop in the corner of the room, you instruct the young Nephilim following you. Without question, he does as you say and retrieves the chair sitting against the wall by a shelf loaded with obscure occult ‘weapons’. The armory is always something that amazes and confuses you with its contents.

The chair drags with a light squeak across concrete floor as you position it where you need it, wasting no time in hiking a leg up and climbing onto the seat. You know what you’re doing, but Jack doesn’t and your sudden movement must startle him a little because you feel him grip your legs by your knees and exclaim loudly.

“Ah, y/n! Be careful!”

You look down at him, unable to help the trickle of fondness that curls into your smile.

“Thanks for spotting me, Jack—don’t worry though, I’m a professional. I do this often.” You lean down to pat his hand and after giving you a slightly concerned look, he slowly releases his supporting grip.

“It’s up here,” you continue, before he gets too distracted. Your hands reach for the grate of the vent that sits high on the wall, almost touching the corner and the ceiling. It’s only around medium size, big enough for you to fit most body parts in but definitely not your body as a whole. It’s only really tacked in, the screws barely securing the metal to the wall. It takes almost no effort to remove it and pass it down to Jack to hold.

“Behold, sweet boy,” you say with a certain air of grandeur and flair, “My personal stash of sweets and goodies.”

Whatever was left of Jack’s concerned look from earlier is quickly wiped clean off his face to make room for the excitement that rises at your words. His brows unfurrow, shooting high as he attempts to peer into the vent.

“You have a stash of sweets?” He asks, almost in awe. “How did you build it so quickly? Haven’t you only been here a little over a week?”

“I’ve had this here for years,” you say, pretending that your words don’t make you cringe a little. Some of the stuff in there… might be a little out-of-date. “Say, you ever tried a kinder surprise? Or a Bueno bar? Or Tim Tams?”

Jack shakes his head, still clutching the grate in his hands. “Are they very good?”

“Very good?!” you echo, letting out a noise that even to your ears sounds a little crazy. “Dude, they’re _amazing._ Delicious. Fantastic. They’ll change your life.”

With each word that escapes your mouth, you sell Jack a little more on the idea. He’s almost vibrating on the spot by the time you’re done, hands fidgeting as he bounces on the balls of his feet every few seconds. “Do you have some, y/n? May… may I try some?”

“Of course, Jack— _mi casa es su casa._ Except, this is more of a top-secret stash than a house. Gimme a sec, I’ll fish some out for you.”

You turn then, careful not to wobble the chair, and go on your tippy-toes to reach your arm into the vent, the other bracing you against the wall. A part of you was worried after hearing Sam’s account of what happened to his own stash of sweets, but to your complete and utter relief there is still a hefty pile sitting half a foot back from the opening of the vent. You dig around a bit, searching for an egg shape or even a bar. The chocolates you mentioned to him should be safe, since you’d only added them somewhat recently. No risk of poisoning the half-angel today!

“Damn it, where are those stupid eggs,” you mutter to yourself as you search the pile, almost grasping something you think might be what you’re looking for only for it to slip away from your fingertips. You let out a huff, but freeze a moment later in delight as you grab a handful of something familiar. Your arm retracts before you can lose it again in your pile.

“Alright, here we a—woAH JESUS! Oh my god!”

As you’d turned around, expecting to see Jack standing in anticipation by the side of the chair, your eyes caught on something that most definitely wasn’t there before. In the split-second it takes for you to recognise the figure leaning against the shelf of weapons, you get so badly startled that before you know it your balance is compromised and you’re teetering on the verge of falling off the chair.

“y/n!” Jack exclaims in worry, lurching forward to grab your legs and stabilise you again. “Are you okay?”

“G-Gabriel,” you manage to choke out around the heart that leapt into your throat from the fright of nearly falling, looking over the nephilim’s shoulder. “Hello, didn’t—didn’t see you there. _Holy shit.”_

His face is somewhat blank, but if you look closer you swear you can see a hint of amusement cross his features. He is still in the rags and still somewhat dirty, since he won’t let anyone come near him and he still hasn’t got enough juice to clean himself. It makes something in your chest twinge but you refuse to give it the mental screentime it demands.

“Oh, Uncle Gabriel,” Jack turns and greets, pleasantly surprised to see his uncle out and about. Nowhere near as surprised as _you_ , however, who honestly didn’t think Gabriel would be leaving his room for a few weeks _at least._ “I am glad to see you are well enough to walk about. What brings you here?”

As expected, Gabriel says nothing—his eyes do, however, betray him when they flit in a squirrely manner from Jack to the overflowing handful of chocolates you have in your hand.

“You came for the sweets?” you query, brows drawing together in confusion. “But how did you—”

You stop yourself mid-sentence, realisation washing over you. “Ah… the vents. You probably heard us.”

Not a word, but the archangel does shrug slightly, gaze flitting away, and you know you must be correct. Jack turns his head back to you, expression confused but mixed in with something else—does he want you to do something? You catch on quickly to the imploring glint in his eyes.

“Here, there’s more than enough—Jack, take one of each and then pass the rest to Gabriel. And if either of you hear Dean, tell me or else this hiding spot will be compromised. If Dean finds out I have a stash of chocolate, it’s game over.”

Jack, as he had done before, nods seriously and carefully takes the handful of chocolates from you. He picks out one of each and places it on the chair by your feet, before tentatively passing the rest to Gabriel.

You hadn’t been sure whether he was actually going to take the sweets or not, but to your surprise he does. With hands that shake ever so slightly, he moves the wrapped goodies from his nephew’s hands to his own, offering the briefest smile to the two of you. And then he is bringing his hands to his chest and turning, making his exit from the room at a pace that is somewhere between hasty and cautious. By the time of your next blink, he is gone and you’re left reeling at the experience.

“I’m not going crazy, right?” you turn your gaze down to Jack, continuing when he meets your eyes. “Gabriel was just here?”

“He was,” Jack confirms, simultaneously relieving and confusing you. “He wanted some sweets, I think.”

“Huh,” you say, because you can’t think of anything else. After a moment, you blink yourself out of your thoughts and return to the original reason you’d brought the young man here.

“Anyway, go ahead and try those! Tell me which one you like most, and I’ll get more out for you.”

Jack doesn’t need to be told twice; he’s diving for the sweets he’d stored on the chair and tearing into the first one he can get his hands on before you’re even finished talking. Within split-seconds he has it in his mouth and he’s giving you a wide-eyed look.

“y/n, this is so good!”

He is definitely not wrong. Smiling, you reach up and attempt to retrieve more of the one in his hand to restock him.

“I know right?! Just wait until you try the other ones.”

**x x**

You’d thought it earlier, but it becomes more apparent now that just as you’d figured, something had changed in Gabriel the other day.

Now, don’t get it wrong—he is still quiet and refuses to speak most of the time, and most of his day is spent within the confines of his room, but lately… he’s begun to sneak out a bit more.

Well, _sneak_ maybe has a little bit of a negative connotation. He’s allowed to be out of his room, of course. It’s just that he’s so quiet and quick that sneaking is the only fitting term you can think of for the way he slinks silently through the bunker.

The idle thought crossed your mind at some point that maybe he just wants to be a part of it all, even for a brief moment, and even if it just means he hovers on the outskirts of the room instead of actually joining in.

Sometimes you’ll come out in the morning and find him curled on one of the plush chairs in the library, hidden behind one of the bookshelves. Other times he might wander into a room when the occupants are in the middle of something, whether that be researching, playing a game, watching something, or even arguing. Actually, he probably shows up most often for the latter. Stirring the pot was his specialty back when, and it seems a pot ready to bubble over is something he is naturally drawn back to as he starts to feel a little more like himself.

Most of the times you've spotted him at the periphery of the room, it's been bickering that has, admittedly, more often than not started at your hands. It’s not your fault! For two brother’s who have literally survived several almost-apocalypses, the Winchesters are awfully easy to tease. Sometimes you give Jack or Mary a few proverbial pokes, but you don’t really have the heart to follow through for very long. The guilt you feel when you rile up Sam and Dean is minimal, but when you start to stir up anyone else in the bunker you feel guilty after about five seconds of it.

Today’s victim is, as often happens to be the case, Dean. Sometimes you seek him out if you’re in a particularly bastardous mood, but today he happened to walk in front of your crosshairs of his own accord. Wrong place, wrong time.

“I’m just saying,” you struggle to keep a straight face as you speak. You can see the red beginning to colour the tips of Dean’s ears and know that you’re getting to him, as much as he is trying not to let it show. “The bacon that you used for that burger… I think it was the one that was out of date.”

“No way,” Dean denies immediately. “I checked the dates, this was from the good packet.”

“Where was it?” you ask him, raising a brow and crossing your arms. He stills for a moment as he attempts to recall which portion of the fridge the bacon was residing in.

“Left side, towards the front.” He finally informs you, looking proud of himself. You lean back in your chair, wincing at him.

“Dude… that was the out-of-date one.” You shake your head, giving him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to tell you, but you’re gonna be super sick later.”

Now, the thing about this argument is that there _was_ no out-of-date bacon that he could have used. You threw it out the other day. But, he doesn’t know that. And if you can convince him that the burger he is more than halfway through was made with funky meat, then you bet his reaction is gonna be really funny.

Dean throws an accusing finger in your direction, scowling. His ears tinge a little more red. “Stop gaslighting me, twinkletoes! I know which bacon I used!”

“Yeah,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “The _out-of-date_ one.”

Dean doesn’t believe you, of course, but you do catch him giving the burger in his hold a cursory glance. He huffs a breath out of his nose.

“If it’s out of date, then why does it still taste so good?” Dean says, with all the gusto of someone who’d just said something worthy of a mic drop. His free hand even moves to his hip, and one of his brows raises at you while his lips purse.

You shrug, resting your legs on the corner of the table and crossing one over the other. The corner stabs into you when you slip slightly and prompts a readjustment. “I don’t know, man. You eat a lot of shit so it could just be that you’re accustomed to funky-tasting food.”

For a moment he appears like he wants to refute what you said, but he seems to think better of it as he, presumably, recalls the meals he’d had as of late. His lips are still pursed as he stares at you for a second with narrowed eyes, the cogs visibly turning in his head.

“You know what,” he begins, sounding a little testy. You pause for a moment, though, as you detect something else in his tone. “Why don’t we bet on it if you’re so sure? Loser has to do the other’s chores for a week.”

“Deal,” you say immediately, without even entertaining the possibility of losing. You presume that he’s just going to judge this on whether or not he gets food poisoning later (which you can easily interfere with; there are a number of things in the bunker that are good for upsetting a stomach), and aren’t too worried. That changes in the next second when you see him turn and make his way to the bin where the bacon packaging no doubt resides. You scramble into a sitting position, dread already creeping into your bones as you realise you’re about to be found out. Damn it, you already hate the chores you have when you’re here, you don’t want to do Dean’s as well!

You make a face as he finally reaches the bin, reaching in to procure the packaging from the top.

“HAH, see! Best by—”

You blink as he halts suddenly in his reading, the red fading from his ears and making way for a green hue to wash over his face.

“Oh. Oh god.” He says, much softer than his earlier proclamation. He drops the packaging back in the bin, and the remains of his burger follow suit in the next heartbeat. He straightens, but doesn’t meet your eyes.

One of his hands comes to place over his stomach, his features twisting. “I’ll… be right back.”

And then he is using his long legs to his advantage and striding out of the room faster than you can comment. You’re left there reeling, alone in the kitchen.

“What the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, confused beyond belief. By all means, he should have read a date that was still safe. Unless you threw out the wrong bacon. But you’d been _sure_ to check which you were throwing out when you did it, so there’s no way—

Your frantic inner monologue is cut off by the soft sound of shuffling on the outskirts of the room. You turn to investigate, and to your surprise catch sight of Gabriel quietly slinking to the door from the corner of the kitchen. He pauses like he feels the weight of your gaze on him, and turns to face you just slightly.

You’re too surprised to even say anything in greeting, and that proves to be the case especially in the next moment when the archangel offers you a brief wink and then turns back the way he is facing, disappearing from the kitchen and leaving you truly alone this time.

It takes a second for the dots to connect in your head, but when they do you can’t help the surprised laugh that leaps from you.

Gabriel had just saved your ass from doing extra chores for a week.

You’d have to slip him some of your stash as a thanks.


End file.
